The Experiment: part V
by Ttime42
Summary: John is offered a choice. Fifth in a series. Contains swearing, non-sexual spanking, gore. Rated T.
1. A Mysterious Smell

**Hello again, awesome readers. ****When I started writing this series, I never anticipated I would write more than 2 parts, much less 5. I had to tweak the storyline here and there as a result, but it really doesn't change much. Thanks again for everyone's support and comments. I hope you all enjoy part 5!**

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"Sherlock, if you don't get that stinking, festering pile of intestines out of the fridge by next pick-up, _I'm _throwing it away myself!" The doctor slammed the fridge door, clenching and unclenching his fists as he yelled at the detective.

"John!" Sherlock was in the doorway in his dressing gown and pajama bottoms. "It's an experiment!"

"No, it's disgusting. I want it gone. It's been in here for two weeks!"

Sherlock pouted, looking like John just told him he wanted to punt his violin off the roof. "Give me three more days." He muttered.

"Nope. Rubbish pick up is tomorrow. It will be gone by tomorrow."

Sherlock's pout turned into a mutinous frown and he stomped into the sitting room, flinging himself on the sofa. John heard him grumbling to himself and he was sure he was getting made fun of, but he didn't care. He suddenly saw the logic behind Mrs. Hudson's idea of giving the detective a few smacks across the bum now and then‒he was acting _spectacularly _like a child. John poked his head into the sitting room and saw the man slouched on the sofa, frowning at the fireplace. He slid his eyes to him and growled, "what?!" in a tone that would make a snotty thirteen year old jealous. John rolled his eyes and ducked back into the kitchen. Yes, he definitely saw the logic.

* * *

A few days later, John pulled open the fridge after a long shift at the surgery and took out a bowl of vegetable curry. The intestines were gone, finally, and the fridge was experiment-and-odor-free. For now. It was nice. This must be how normal people lived.

"Thank you for finally cleaning out the fridge." John said to his flatmate, who was seated at the microscope. He hummed in response.

John ate in the sitting room, watching telly, before putting the bowl in the sink and heading upstairs to his room to change. He opened the door and recoiled at the wretched stench that blew out in his face. What the hell? He flipped on the light, covering his nose and mouth with one hand and glanced around the space, half expecting there to be a pile of dead things on the floor. Nothing. He crept around his room, looking into corners. Nothing. He opened his wardrobe and saw it was blessedly bereft of anything that would cause such a foul smell. John threw open his window as far as it would go, waving his arms at it in a vain attempt to encourage the smell to leave. This was crazy! It didn't stink on the stairs, so what was going on? It _had_ to be in his room. John got on his knees and peered under his dresser. Just dust. He crawled forward and looked under his bed and it was then that he saw it. The intestines that had been in the fridge appeared to have found a new home under his bed, and by the stench of it, they had been rotting there all day while he was at work.

"Sherlock!" He bellowed in a tone that made the floorboards ring.

At the microscope, the detective grinned.

* * *

"Hoo-hoo." Mrs. Hudson knocked on the open door the next day. John was at the desk on his laptop. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Hi, Mrs. H." John said. "If it reeks in here, it's Sherlock's fault." John had disposed of the foul body parts last night, thinking some horrible things about his flatmate the entire time.

"Oh no, love. I can't smell a thing." She went into the kitchen and put a few things away. "Just some leftovers from the café!" She called.

"Thanks." John said.

"Did you two have a little domestic last night? I heard you over the telly‒is everything alright?"

John saved his draft and stood up.

"A bit. We're fine now." He said. "Sorry about the yelling. Would you like tea?"

"Only if you're making it for yourself anyway!" Mrs. Hudson called. "I can't stay long‒it's busy in the café, goodness‒but one cup won't hurt."

John flipped the kettle on and set out two mugs. Sherlock was away at the hospital, as Mike was there today to give him lab access. He'd said something about being gone for most of the day before he left, so John knew he'd have the flat to himself. Good. He had an idea for revenge and he needed to be alone to do it. No one put intestines under his bed without a comeuppance.

"I meant to tell you, John, I'm going to have a man come out to repaper and patch up that wall by your sofa. Ever since Sherlock shot it, I've been meaning to get it fixed."

"When is he coming by?" John asked.

"Hopefully in the next week or two. He's dreadfully booked, so it might be a bit yet."

She stayed long enough to finish the tea before going back to the café. John put both mugs in the sink and crept down the hall towards Sherlock's room. The door was open and he stood on the threshold, feeling wrong-footed being here by himself while Sherlock wasn't even home. It was an unspoken thing that they stayed out of each other's rooms just for privacy and politeness' sake. Usually. Living with Sherlock, nothing was a guarantee and Sherlock had clearly violated that rule when he shoved body parts under John's bed. John walked further in. The room was extremely neat. Everything was shelved and dusted and organized. It was the exact opposite of the rest of the flat.

He went to the wardrobe and opened the sliding doors, revealing designer shirts neatly hung and dress shoes paired on the floor. On the far end of the wardrobe was Sherlock's costume section, as there was a construction vest, a few suits in different colors, and something shiny. A chest of drawers was off to one side and John pulled one mahogany drawer open. Underwear. He closed it and another drawer revealed some T-shirts and the third was what he was looking for: the sock index. John stared at it for a few moments. It was disgustingly tidy, even by John's military standards. Every sock was paired and rolled, organized by weight and then by color, resulting in an evenly weighted undulating rainbow ranging from black to red. Grinning, feeling like he was a child let loose in a sweet shop, John took two pairs and switched their places. Red got exchanged with blue and white was pushed up against green. He paired a few wrong colors and patterns and then sat back to admire his work. It was definitely messed up, but no one besides Sherlock would see that anything was amiss. A normal person would see socks in a drawer, but Sherlock would see barely contained chaos. John pushed the drawer closed and left the room, preparing to put part two of his plan into action.

It would have been easier to just forbid experiments from entering the flat. It would have been easier for them to just row and punch and yell. John didn't want to do that though. That would be too pedestrian even by his standards. Sherlock was a special sort of person, so John wanted to take a special sort of revenge. This was only day one, and he had lots of ideas planned.

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_**Thanks for reading! As usual, comments are appreciated :) tbc...  
**_


	2. Not So Pedestrian

**Thanks for the kind reviews, everyone :)  
**

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The doctor was firmly ensconced in his armchair with the newspaper when he heard the door downstairs open. He grinned and turned a page. He'd ran a few errands after rearranging the sock index and then spent some time moving almost every piece of furniture in the flat. Not drastically‒he didn't rearrange the place, he just ensured everything was a little off-kilter. The sofa was closer to the window. The armchairs were further apart. The fridge, the bin, the kitchen table, the coffee table in front of the sofa, all of it was moved a few inches from where it had previously stood. He'd even rotated the skull on the mantle. He didn't touch too much of Sherlock's strewn items and case notes. He didn't want to cause real trouble or damage anything. He just wanted to be annoying, and he really hoped his efforts would pay off.

"Hey, Sherlock." John said as the detective strode into the flat through the kitchen.

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed in greeting and eyed the day's post on the counter, flipping through it. He stepped into the sitting room to hang his coat and John heard him freeze mid-step. He could practically feel the detective's eyes darting around the room, taking in details.

"John." He said, entering the room slowly.

"Hm?" John looked up, pretending he had no idea what could have possibly given Sherlock pause.

"Is something…" Sherlock pulled off his gloves one finger at a time, "different?"

John glanced around. There was the messy desk, the coffee table and pile of magazines. The fire crackling beside him. "No. What would be different?"

"Hm." Sherlock looked around some more, his expressive eyes narrowing and widening. John could almost see the calculations running through his brain, very aware that something was wrong and yet nothing was wrong at all. Sherlock finally hummed in his throat and hung his coat near the door before heading back to the kitchen. John heard him freeze again in the doorway and he couldn't help the huge shit-eating grin that crossed his face. Sherlock had noticed alright, he'd noticed more than John had hoped. Quickly schooling his features, he put the paper down and grabbed his empty mug.

"Mrs. Hudson was here earlier." John said, walking past the still figure of his friend and going to the coffeepot. "She brought up some odds and ends from the café if you're interested."

"Did she." Sherlock sounded decidedly suspicious and John had to try really hard not to laugh. _You're a grown man for fuck's sake‒you should not be giggling like a schoolboy playing a prank on the headmaster! _That's what it felt like though. Sherlock was always so aware and so sure of himself. It felt nice to finally get the detective even a millimeter outside his comfort zone.

John poured some coffee into his mug. "Yes, she did. What's gotten into you?" John asked, forcing himself to look at the man. "Did everything go okay at the lab?"

"Yes." Finally he seemed to snap out of it. "Fine." He strode towards his room.

"Do you want Chinese or Angelo's for dinner?" John called after him. He braced himself, waiting for Sherlock to discover the sock index and go ballistic.

"Angelo's!" Came the reply.

"Angelo's it is." John said to himself. There was no forthcoming sock explosion and John relaxed. It would actually be better if he found out tomorrow, John just hoped he'd be around to see it.

* * *

Sherlock was bringing his clean laundry to his bedroom later that evening. The flat was quiet and dark. John had gone up to bed a couple hours ago, as he had work early the next day. Sherlock dumped the clothes on his bed. It wasn't much, just some socks and underwear. His shirts and trousers were dry-clean only, so his washing loads tended to be small. He paired his socks just so and then pulled open his wardrobe, humming a Bach sonata vaguely to himself as he opened the sock drawer. The mismatched mess that greeted him was startling. _Oh John…_he stared down at the disheveled socks, smirking slightly to himself at John's method of retaliation. It was surprisingly subtle, not like a pile of intestines under a mattress. Sherlock found himself admiring it, even if it was annoying. He tidied the drawer in a few easy movements and closed it up again.

Challenge accepted.

He wandered back out into the kitchen, wondering what he could do. How could he exact revenge on the good doctor? There were always experiments, but that's what had started this whole thing. No, something else, something…Sherlock peered around, then his gaze zeroed in on the box of tea left out on the counter and he snickered.

Sherlock knew how fond John was of his tea and coffee. Every morning, before doing anything else, he would make himself a cup of one or the other. The coffee he had with milk and the tea with milk and sugar. If he wasn't working that day, he'd have a cup or seven throughout the day, and if he was working, he'd always make another cup of his evening blend when he got home. Yes, tea and coffee were consumed readily by both parties in the flat. Sherlock opened the cabinet. Two boxes of tea and a canister of coffee sat on the lowest shelf. The highest shelf in the cabinet was empty and even Sherlock had to stand on tiptoe to reach it. Grinning, he put the morning tea and the coffee on the high shelf, knowing that John would need to stand on a chair to reach it. The evening blend Sherlock hid under the sink. There. That should do it‒oh wait. He opened the fridge and took the milk out, placing it on the countertop, ensuring it would be spoiled by morning. True, he preferred milk in his tea as well, but in war, sacrifices had to be made. Now it was complete. He picked up a science journal and dropped onto the sofa with it, pleased with himself. He wished John a mental good morning and pushed the incident from his mind. No one touched his sock index without asking for a fight.

* * *

John staggered down the steps the next morning, groggy with sleep and hungry for caffeine. Sherlock was at his laptop, typing at the desk. A tall steaming mug of hot coffee was at his elbow.

"Mmm." John grumbled in greeting.

"Mm-hm." Sherlock hummed back. At this point in their friendship they had a shorthand with each other, and entire conversations were sometimes done in grunts and body language. He smiled at the screen when he heard John put water in the kettle and turn it on. The cabinet opened and he made a little sad noise when he saw there was no tea. The cabinet closed.

"Sherlock, you left the milk out!"

"Did I?" His voice was dry and distant.

"It's ruined!"

"Dear me." Sherlock continued typing.

The cabinet opened again as John looked through it once more. It closed. Some things were rummaged with and then Sherlock heard him wandering around the kitchen, opening other cabinets and pawing through contents. Sherlock enjoyed these noises thoroughly. It wasn't until John was standing in front of the tea cabinet again that Sherlock heard a very faint, "mother_fucker_" come out of his mouth. He glanced over. John was staring up at the beverages on the top shelf. He suppressed a laugh and sipped his coffee just as John spun around and gave him what Sherlock could _feel _was his Captain Watson glare. He drank the coffee for a long time and let out a satisfied "ah" when he put it back down. He typed a few more lines, still able to feel the doctor's gaze burning into his face. He could just see in the corner of his eye him clenching and opening his fists the way he did when he was annoyed or stressed. Sherlock couldn't resist. He looked at John, brows raised as if to say 'what of it?' John's glare softened and they exchanged a mutual nod. The game was on.

Sherlock smiled as John pointedly grabbed a kitchen chair and dropped it down next to the counter with a _rattle-bang. _He stomped up onto it and yanked the tea and coffee down, proceeding to make the angriest cup of tea in the world before hurrying back upstairs to get ready for work.

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**tbc…**


	3. The Game is On

John returned home from work that day and half tore the kitchen apart around Sherlock (who was at his microscope again supremely unconcerned by the goings-on around him), looking for his evening tea. Anytime he was near the detective, he muttered, "bastard" or "arse" or the like but absolutely refused to ask where the tea was. That would be like letting Sherlock win, and that _could not _happen. Sherlock, meanwhile, was tickled by the whole experience. John finally found it and made himself a cup, purposely pouring out the extra water in the electric kettle when he was done. Usually when one of them used the kettle, he would leave the excess water in case the other wanted some. It was just a little polite thing to do, given how much hot beverages were consumed here. This way though, John was ensuring Sherlock would have to make his own water if he wanted any.

Sherlock arrived home from the morgue a few days later with some plague-infected tissue samples from Molly, only to see his microscope unplugged and a tiny padlock fastened to the little hole in one of the prongs in the cord plug. _That_ touched a nerve. The microscope was expensive‒that was _his _territory! John didn't even know how microscopes worked! John was in the sitting room (obviously listening for a reaction) and Sherlock refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing the nerve had been struck. He had a pair of bolt cutters on the shelf in his room and he cut the lock off as loudly as he could manage before flinging it in the bin. Pleased that John had been unable to get to him much, Sherlock sat down and pulled a new slide out of the box…only to find each and every new slide inside smudged to hell with fingerprints. John's prints. Damn him.

The Great War of 221B continued.

Sherlock took one half of every single pair of John's shoes late one night. The noise the doctor made the next morning upon discovery was one of the funniest things Sherlock ever heard.

John rearranged all of the stacks of papers in the flat, shuffling pages around within them and in some cases, flinging the pages haphazardly around the room. He had given this particular prank pause initially, as he didn't want to cause real damage, but screw that. That was then, and this had already escalated further than John would have thought. Sherlock arrived home and saw the obviously tampered with papers and for a moment, John thought he would yell and they would finally row about this whole thing, but he didn't. Instead he calmly went to his bedroom and shut himself inside for the rest of the night.

For three days John couldn't find his laptop. When it was returned, sitting innocuously on the desk as if it had been there all along, there were so many viruses on it that it almost didn't start. Anytime he tried to take steps to remove one, he was treated to the speakers vomiting out a high pitched recording of Sherlock terrorizing the violin. Clever, John had to admit, but also irritating. Really irritating. He muted the machine and sat back in his chair. How long was this going to go on? They hadn't spoken in days, and it was really only a matter of time before the food started being tampered with and one of them got sick. At the very least. No doubt it would eventually escalate into a fire or the flat being filled with killer bees or something.

Mrs. Hudson came up one afternoon with a repairman in tow. His nametag read 'Bill.'

"I found the same wallpaper!" She exclaimed to John as Sherlock helped Bill drag the sofa away from the wall. "I thought it was discontinued‒now I only need to repaper the part of the wall Sherlock shot! It'll still be an expense though…"

Bill looked apprehensive at the thought of bullets flying through the air here, but instead he dutifully spread a tarp in the cleared space and went to work.

"Would you like some tea, Bill?" John asked.

"If it's not much trouble."

"Not at all." John went into the kitchen and opened the cabinet. "Oh for f‒" the tea was on the high shelf again.

"Sherlock." He called. The detective and Mrs. Hudson came into the room and Sherlock sheepishly reached up for the brew.

"What is it doing up there?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I put it there." Sherlock muttered.

"Why so high?"

"Because." Sherlock said. He popped open the box.

"So I can't reach it." John said snidely. He knew Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be pleased about _that_, and John was thrilled at the easy way to get back at him.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson sounded aghast and Sherlock glanced up at them, alarmed. "That's just because he almost broke my microscope on purpose!" Sherlock declared.

Mrs. Hudson turned her aghast face to the doctor. "John Watson!" She sounded appalled and disappointed at the same time and John mentally scrabbled for an excuse.

"He stole my shoes!" He managed. John neglected to tell her that he had found them in a biohazard bag near the bin outside. They had been rained on.

"He messed up my socks!" Sherlock yelled.

"He put _intestines _under my‒"

"‒Enough!" Mrs. Hudson snapped. She lowered her voice as Bill started stripping the paper in the other room. "Both of you have clearly been behaving like children and I want it to stop _right now_. Understood?"

"Yes." Both men said in dull voices.

"Fine. One of you come get me when Bill is finished." She left. Sherlock retreated to his bedroom and John brought the mug out to Bill, who took it gratefully. Within a couple hours he was finished and a nice shiny newly papered wall decorated the flat.

* * *

Days went by and John didn't touch any of Sherlock's things. Mrs. Hudson's visit had been sobering, and John didn't want to upset her. Granted, it was Sherlock's arse that would be in the firing line, but still. As far as he could tell, Sherlock didn't touch any of his items either. All was well for the next few days and they were even talking again. As far as John was concerned, this stupid petty war was over.

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**tbc...**


	4. The Last Straw

**A little bit of a longer chapter :)  
**

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John pushed open the door to 221B and trudged up the steps. What a day. It was like summer (what there was of it) had gone straight to winter. The weather went from a borderline-jacket balmy to a shivering windy bluster in a matter of hours. The surgery had been busy all afternoon as people came in with various aches and woes and mystery illnesses. He'd had to give several children jabs and one little girl got so upset with him that she kicked him in the thigh. That was this morning and he could _still_ feel where her tiny shoe had hit.

The sound that emanated from the walls as he neared the flat made him frown. Sherlock, on the violin, screeching away. There had been no cases for ages (though three he'd turned down. Too boring) and the detective was starting to climb the walls. Morgue visits and science journals only went so far. Sherlock had been stroppy with him yesterday, giving John a shorter than normal temper, and John was not eager to repeat that night. He slipped into the flat, wincing as the instrument got louder. He tried to be quiet, but it was Sherlock, and he had ears like an owl.

"John!" The instrument went silent. "Where's my mobile?"

"What? How should I know? I haven't been home all day. Is there anything to eat? I'm starving." He opened the fridge. No human heads, that was something. There was a head of cabbage though.

"Where did you put it?" Sherlock insisted. He set the violin on the chair and stalked into the kitchen, arms folded defensively.

"I didn't take it." John told him, irritated now. He closed the fridge. "What the hell would I do with your bloody mobile?"

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh and swept up the stairs.

"Hey‒what are you doing?" John followed him into the hall. "Sherlock, don't you dare go in my room!" John heard him rummaging around in there and he was about to stomp after the man have the row that had been building for a fortnight now. Instead, something shiny and silver caught his eye in the sitting room. A big metal bowl of red and lumpy liquid was on the coffee table. "What on earth…" He strode into the sitting room and nearly vomited. The bowl was filled with organs and blood.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, very much at the end of his rope. "Get this _mess _off the table right now!" He picked up the bowl‒ew, it was cold.

"Don't touch that!" Sherlock hollered. Footsteps thundered as he dashed down the stairs. "Put it down." He commanded to John, who was heading for the door, intent on throwing the whole thing in Mrs. Hudson's bins. "John!"

"No. No‒I drew the line at the intestines‒I will not stand for a body's worth of parts in my home!"

"They're _cow_ parts, John." Sherlock was almost whining. "And there are no intestines in there."

"I don't care what parts they are! They're disgusting!" John turned for the door again and Sherlock grabbed the edge of the bowl firmly in his hands. "Let go." John said, staring the man hard in the eye. Sherlock responded by trying to tug the bowl away. "Sherlock, _let go_." John said again.

"You let go‒these are _mine_." Sherlock tugged again. John didn't budge. If it hadn't been such a shit day, John would have seen that they were standing right in front of the newly papered wall and he would have put the pieces together earlier. If he and Sherlock hadn't been engaged in this moronic passive aggressive battle of wills for the past two weeks, they would have both had leveler heads. If Sherlock had a case to distract himself with, he never would have brought the cow parts home. If, if, if.

Sherlock tugged again. John yanked back. The tug of war went on for a few seconds until some blood sloshed up over Sherlock's hand, making the man lose his grip. John tugged, the metal lip flew out of Sherlock's fingers, and the bowl upturned everywhere. It arced up in the air, gleaming in the light as a waterfall of crimson spilled out. It slammed the coffee table with a loud _clang! _ and the blood and organs splattered on the table, the floor, both of them, the sofa, and the shiny new wallpaper. The empty bowl smacked the floorboards and spun, making a sort of _wooga-wooga-wooga _sound as it rotated and went still.

Both men were stunned. John looked up at Sherlock, wincing at the sight of blood and gore dripping down his fine suit. It was like that time he took the Tube home with the harpoon. John knew he didn't look much better. He could feel blood oozing off his hair and down his neck, and a quick glance down revealed his work clothes covered in gore. The room smelled like iron and copper and the faintest hint of wallpaper paste.

"Are you okay?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. It was like the argument had evaporated the moment the bowl hit the ground. Something slimy slopped off John's hair and into his eye and he made a face. "Ulgh."

"I'll get the cleaning powder…" Sherlock headed for the kitchen.

John went to the loo and turned the tap on to warm. He splashed water up onto his face, grimacing and grunting again. This was disgusting‒and honestly, also a tiny bit funny. John found himself smiling as he rubbed water over his chin. Never a dull moment with Sherlock. Upon waking this morning, he'd have never thought he'd get a bowl's worth of cow parts poured over his head when he got home. He got most of the goo off his face and got the big bits off his hair. He was toweling himself dry when he heard a voice in the next room‒a very angry, scolding voice. He paused and listened.

"…should be ashamed of yourselves! Arguing like children‒fighting over silly things and now look…"

Mrs. Hudson. John threw the towel over the rack and crept down the hallway. They were in the sitting room, amongst the mess. Sherlock was standing, staring at his feet while Mrs. Hudson reamed him, pointing at the wall and the floors. John moved for the tea‒now back to its original home on the low shelf‒and set about making them all some, trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. "I've never had a tenant that was as troublesome as you!" Mrs. Hudson scolded. "I should spank you until you howl!"

John made a face at the simmering tea kettle. Poor Sherlock.

"And that goes for you too, John Watson!"

John blinked. What? Him too? He turned slowly and looked at the pair, mild alarm tingling his limbs. Mrs. Hudson was staring at him, arms crossed and one hip thrust out, clearly waiting for John to answer. Sherlock, still looking contrite, was peering up at him, his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I, uh," John flicked his gaze between the two of them, "sorry about the wall." It was true. He genuinely didn't mean for the blood to get all over the wall, but it's not like it had been on purpose.

"Downstairs!" She pointed towards her flat. "Now!"

Sherlock took off, hurrying down the steps. John paused, looking between her and the stairs. He gulped. He knew what would happen to him if he followed Sherlock, and the thought was _not _appealing. Mrs. Hudson saw his expression and softened slightly. She took in the mess on his clothes and the remains in his hair, looking almost amused. "Do you know what I do when Sherlock does something he shouldn't have, love?"

"You spank him." John said.

"Do you know why?" She asked.

"Uh…because you're upset with him?"

"Well, yes. That, and I know that it will work‒at least for a time."

That John knew was true. After one of her smackings Sherlock was always quieter around the flat. Not subdued or cowed, but more mellow and respectful, especially towards Mrs. Hudson. John suspected Sherlock must get a sort of release or _something _from the discipline. Otherwise why on earth would he continue it? He confirmed it wasn't a sex thing, so repeatedly allowing himself to receive spankings must give him some sense of relief or even a kind of peace at having a mother figure in his life so willing to take an interest in his safety. John had no idea what Sherlock's mother had been like, but perhaps Mrs. Hudson was providing something she hadn't. Ultimately, John had no idea why Sherlock went through with it. He really hadn't given it a ton of thought.

"I know it will work because I used to be his and Mycroft's nanny, did you know?"

John hadn't known that.

"Years‒_decades _ago, yes. Of course, I didn't use the spoon on them. They were too little for that, but they did get a smack now and then. Not often, mind," she added, "but you can imagine."

John raised his brows. Christ, the Holmes boys as children?

"They're sweethearts, really." Mrs. Hudson continued. "Sherlock was an adorable child." She smiled, fondly lost in memories now. John patiently indulged her. "With his curly little head of hair and big bright eyes‒I remember, he would always fall asleep in my arms in the parlor after I'd read to him before his afternoon nap." She sighed. "When he was asleep, he wasn't getting into trouble, you know? Mycroft was always the better behaved one. The quiet one. Probably not surprising, really. He used to be blonde. Beautiful children, both of them."

"They must have been terrors." John mused.

She smiled. "They weren't so bad once one learned how to handle them."

This made a little more sense now. The spankings weren't something completely new to their already close relationship. Mrs. Hudson used to smack them as children and the fact that Sherlock was now a professional functioning adult didn't seem to bother either of them. Well, John shrugged mentally, good for them. If Mrs. Hudson was willing to provide something Sherlock needed and they were both okay with her whacking his arse to do it, then so was he.

"Sherlock's agreed to a spanking. Since you had such a part in this, from what I can tell, I think you deserve the same‒but," she held her hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I can't and won't force you. You're my tenant, and the choice is up to you."

Now this was a weird situation. Sherlock may need the spankings, but he didn't. The first and most obvious answer to this situation would be to refuse. He was an adult. He'd seen Sherlock come back to the flat all tearstained after an encounter with her. He remembered how hard it was for Sherlock to stand still in that airing cupboard when those kids had played a joke on them all those months ago. He _should_ be saying a resounding "no!" and leave it at that. And yet…he doubted. The fact that he doubted that 'no!' was weird in itself. Why was he doubting it? Why was he considering for even a second taking what would be the first spanking he'd had since he was about eight?

Well, on one hand, he _was _responsible for the mess everywhere and he had been contributing to the prank war as much as Sherlock. The detective had started it when he put the intestines under John's bed, but John had continued it by retaliating with the sock index. However he spun it, there was no doubt whatsoever that they were both equally to blame for the current mess of gore ruining the paper and furniture. A spanking though? He could see her putting the damage costs on the rent‒after all, that's what she did when Sherlock actually shot the wall in the first place. Logically, saying 'no thanks' made the most sense, but ironically, despite Sherlock's rigid logic, John had found his life becoming even more nonsensical the longer he lived with Sherlock Holmes. Seriously, John was willing to bet money that no one else in London was dealing with a flatfull of spilled cow parts.

Another reason he wasn't yelling 'no!' was because by extending this invitation (as it was) Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were inviting him in. They had a special relationship‒which now made a little more sense with her having been the Holmes' nanny‒and that was a relationship John had never been a part of or had ever even been close to until now. He knew Sherlock was like a fifth son to her. He would have to be to allow her to do something as personal as give him a spanking. And with Mrs. Hudson extending the invitation to John, it was like she was inviting him into 'the family.' That idea was very appealing. He'd even go so far as to say that being in 'the family' was more appealing than the spanking was unappealing because to be honest, he didn't really have a family. He saw Harry on holidays and they forced themselves into the odd phone call, but there was no real support there. His parents were both long gone. In Afghanistan his family had been his platoon, and before that, it was Uni mates. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were, terrifyingly, the closest thing to a family he had in his adult life, at least emotionally and in terms of physical proximity.

Or it was possible he was being a sappy twat and Mrs. Hudson was just angry with him and wanted him punished for the wallpaper.

Still though, he believed in taking responsibility for one's actions, and he thought too that Sherlock might just pout and be petulant if John refused the offer, or go the opposite direction and be snide and proud that _he _had taken the spanking and John refused. A bitty little part of him supplied a sort of male macho sentiment that wanted to boast that if Sherlock could take it, so could he‒and honestly, Mrs. Hudson was in her sixties. He had been _shot in war_. What was a spanking after getting shot?

"I'll do it." He said.

"Fine. Go on down, love."

John did, jogging down the stairs and through her open door. Sherlock was standing in the center of the room, arms folded, looking worried. He glanced up when John came in and a look of surprised bafflement came over his face.

"_Rea_lly." He said.

"I guess so." John looked over Sherlock's bloody suit, then down at his own stained clothes. They stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"This is ridiculous." John muttered between giggles. "She was your _nanny_?"

"For years, yes."

"That somehow makes this whole thing reassuringly less weird." John said.

"Don't get too reassured," Sherlock said. "It hurts." They both sobered when they saw her coming.

"Well, I hope you two are feeling better after that little outburst. If you're so happy about the spankings, I'm sure we can arrange to have them more often." She said briskly. That shut them up. Sherlock's mouth fell when he saw his own flat-backed wooden hairbrush in her hand. "Are you using that?" He asked.

"I didn't bring it down here to do your hair, love."

"What about the spoon?" Sherlock pressed.

"Do you want the spoon too?"

"No!"

"That's settled then. John, shut the door."

Surprised, the doctor moved towards the open door. She turned to Sherlock. "Are you okay with this?" She asked in a low voice. Sherlock glanced at the brush, wondering briefly if she meant that, or if she meant the fact that John was here and was apparently going to be getting spanked too.

"Yes." He answered both questions.

John came back, looking worried.

"Who first?" She adopted a business-like tone and manner that was so unlike her usual warmth. Mrs. "Nanny" Hudson. "Sherlock?" She said. "May as well be you. You can show John how it's done. C'mon." She sat on the sofa and patted her thigh with the brush. Sherlock crept to her left side and stood there, facing towards John and the room and looking down at her legs with ill disdain.

"Trousers down and over my knee."

_Damn,_ John thought, _she goes right for the jugular._

Sherlock looked up at John and hesitated.

"None of that embarrassment now, young man. You should both be far more embarrassed about how you've been behaving."

Sherlock pouted, but unbuttoned his clothes, pushing his trousers to his knees and getting down over hers. John winced as Sherlock got into the old fashioned position‒his hands flat on the floor and his legs bent behind, offering his bottom up as a perfect target. The lack of clothing didn't bother John at all. After getting doused with cold cow organs, underpants were tame. He supposed it was just a surprising sight. Sherlock was always so in control, strutting around crimes scenes and owning any space he occupied. John had never seen him submit like this to anyone.

"Ah, should I…?" John pointed at the kitchen, intent on giving them some privacy.

"Nope. You stand right there, John. I want you both to watch what you've done to each other."

_Ouch. _John felt bad now‒her implication that his behavior had caused Sherlock to be punished was a particularly effective form of guilt. A sudden urge to apologize came over him, to say he was sorry for acting like an arse and all the stupid pranks and even sorry for having a hand in putting him in this embarrassing and submissive position, even though it was just as much the detective's fault as his.

She wrapped her hand around his outer hip and raised the flat wooden brush over his black boxer-brief clad backside. John grimaced in empathy before she slammed it down once, twice, three times…John couldn't help but startle a little at each smack. They were loud! She alternated cheeks, and John could tell she wasn't holding back. Sherlock jerked a little with each popping _whack_, his curly head hanging down so much that John couldn't see his face. Her pace was brisk and unbroken and after a few moments, Sherlock started curling his hands into fists, wriggling over her lap.

"Stay still." She said to him, giving him a thwack on the bare thigh. It made a different sort of _pop _sound and he jerked, mumbling apologies.

Oh boy, John thought. Maybe this wasn't the best choice. Still though, his resolve to do this too stayed firm. Sherlock held still for a little bit longer, then started to squirm again. John didn't blame him. She wasn't letting up and it looked painful as hell. "Mrs. Hudson!" His voice wavered. "I'm sorry about the wallpaper!"

"I know you are." She paused, setting the brush on the cushion, then hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants and tugged them down a few inches. John blinked as she peered over his bottom. Okay, that was unexpected, but he supposed it shouldn't be. She had said she was going to spank them, so a bared bottom wasn't exactly a surprise. Sherlock's arse was facing away from him and the detective jerked up when the cloth was yanked away, an indignant squawk escaping his lips.

"Oh you're fine." She scoffed. "It's not like I haven't seen your arse more times than I can count. You're a little pink, dear, you can take more." She pulled his pants back up and continued to steadily pepper his bottom with _smacks._

"Stop! It won't happen again!" He lifted his head and John saw there were tears dribbling down his cheeks. His nose and eyes were tinged red and he glanced frantically over his shoulder to see what she was doing. John's heart swelled. He was staring to regret his decision _just _a little, but he wasn't going to back out. No way. He'd agreed and he was going in one hundred percent. She smacked Sherlock a few more times‒four good hard ones‒then set the brush down. He shuddered and she carded her hand through his hair. "There, there…" She soothed. "All done now. Honestly, Sherlock, we don't do this very often, but it still seems like you find yourself arse-up over my lap more times than you'd like. Think about consequences before you take actions, love."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." He sniffed. He was much more relaxed now, John could tell. Her hand in his hair seemed to be a balm, calming and settling him. John almost felt like he was intruding on something he shouldn't be, that this was some intimate moment between them. She had told him to watch, though, and now John had an unpleasant realization staring him in the face. He was next. He was actually a bit nervous about it. _Stop, _he told himself, _you're a grown man, a doctor and a soldier._ The mental reassurance did absolutely nothing and he still found he felt like a little boy. Dammit.

"Feel better?" She asked after a moment. He nodded and scooted back off her knees, coming to his on the floor. He sniffed a few more times and then stood, hiking up his trousers and wiping his face. "Apologize to John and get a drink, dear." She said to him, her voice gentle and warm. "Then come back in here."

Sherlock nodded and trudged over to his flatmate, wincing as his bum ached. "Sorry for all the stupid pranks, John." His voice was hoarse and hitched in his throat.

"That's okay, mate." John said sincerely. Sherlock nodded and went into the kitchen.

"John." Mrs. Hudson was back to the no-nonsense voice. She patted her leg. "Your turn."

* * *

**tbc…**


	5. John's Turn

The doctor took a breath and walked over to her sofa, more nervous than he thought he'd be. It was one thing to scoff in the safety of his own kitchen and tell himself that she was sixty and he'd been shot. But Sherlock‒damn he'd been shot too and she had reduced him to tears.

"Trousers down." She said, brushing some lint off her skirt.

John steeled himself and pushed his stained jeans down to his knees, revealing dark green boxers. He took a quick breath and got over her legs like he had seen Sherlock do and adjusted himself until he felt as comfortable as he could feel while bloodstained and partially naked over his landlady's lap. Why the hell had he agreed to this again? Sherlock appeared in the doorway, sipping a glass of water. John glanced up at him, then looked away, feeling shamed. He'd forgotten how undignified of a position this was.

"How's your shoulder?" Her hand rested on his scarred left shoulder and John lifted his head. "Does the position cause strain?" She asked.

"No." John said, surprised and even a little touched that she'd considered it.

"Good, have you been spanked before?" She asked.

"Uh, yeah." His face warmed. "When I was a kid. Not with the brush though."

"First time for everything. Do you need a reminder as to why you're over my lap?"

"Um, because of the wallpaper and because Sherlock and I were acting like spoiled children." _And because by taking this punishment I'll feel like I'm in the 'family.' _He didn't say that aloud.

"Good." She patted his back, "very good."

John felt her hand wrap around his hip. He licked his lips, bracing himself, and the first _smack_ landed on his left cheek. He winced. Then right. Left, right, left…oh damn, this was actually hurting more than he'd anticipated. The heat built slowly, but seemed to go deep into his skin, turning into a throbbing, layered mess of pain. He wanted to squirm but forced himself not to. He didn't want a smack on the thigh and he knew that's exactly what he'd get. Mrs. Hudson did _not _fuck around.

He hung his head and clenched his fists against the carpet, smelling the scent of her faint perfume and the dust on the floor. He remembered training with his platoon, doing one-handed pushups in the blazing desert sun until his muscles screamed. This was kind of like that, only the blazing was concentrated on his arse and instead of his muscles aching it was his skin. He was starting to feel the pressure on his belly too, where he was resting on her legs‒he hoped that her legs weren't getting smashed and that it wasn't aggravating her hip. First Sherlock's and now his weight over her knees couldn't feel good.

The heat continued, the sting getting more intense. He grunted and couldn't help the little shift of his hips. Jeez, had it always hurt this bad? It was true that he had never been 'brushed' before, but he'd had a few mild spankings as a kid. Sure, he hadn't thought they were mild at the time, but compared to this? This stung and burned and damn well hurt. His instinct was to kick‒he remembered that from being a kid too. He was a kicker. That memory had been floating around the ether of his subconscious for thirty odd years, but now the brush had popped it up again, clear as day. It was just as tempting now to kick and thrash as it had been when he was little. Instead he crossed his ankles. He didn't want to kick and somehow nail Mrs. Hudson and hurt her.

She paused and John felt fingers on his waistband. He didn't care if she saw his arse, he honestly didn't, but she didn't tug his pants down like she had with Sherlock's. She lifted and looked briefly at his warmed cheeks before letting them snap back in place and hefting the brush up again. John supposed she just wanted to maintain the spirit of equality since she didn't know him as well, and really, he was pleased she was so conscientious. The brush continued to pop across his bottom.

She didn't offer any promises of giving him more like she had with Sherlock, and John realized it was because he wasn't saying anything. He didn't beg her to stop. He didn't groan and complain. It just wasn't his style. He had accepted his situation and he had agreed to the punishment. They all knew how badly this hurt and he had always been stoic. When he'd been shot he hadn't screamed or yelled (despite the massive, massive pain) and even as child, any bruises or injury were met with minimal fuss and tears were generally silent. Harry was the raucous one and he'd borne the stiff upper lip. Like now, Sherlock was the yeller and John apparently still stayed quiet. He would have laughed at this new knowledge if his arse wasn't hurting so bad.

Tears stung at his eyes and he focused on his breathing, the way he would tell injured soldiers and patients at the hospital to do so they could withstand the pain until medication could be administered. This was unpleasant but it was only temporary.

Finally she stopped and all the heat exploded on his bum. He hissed and shifted, tightening his arse muscles. Suddenly he was glad she hadn't done the whole thing bare. Now _that _would be unpleasant.

"Well done, John." Mrs. Hudson sounded legitimately impressed and then her soft hand was between his shoulders, stroking and massaging the nape of his neck as he relaxed in a ragged exhale of breath. She rubbed his back and John felt the anticipated buzzy mix of endorphins in his brain.

"Thanks." He muttered. It felt like the heat radiating off his backside could ignite a campfire.

He let her rub his back a bit longer (it really did feel nice) and then shuffled off her lap, coming to his knees on the floor. He reached his left hand back and cupped his cheek, frowning at the tender skin. He glanced up, blinking away tears. Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, the half-full glass of water in his hand. He was watching John with an expression of apprehensive fascination, made slightly disturbing by the fact that his suit was covered in blood, his detective brain gleaning every single last detail of what he'd just witnessed. Mrs. Hudson, meanwhile, looked about ready to leap up and hug him.

The mood in the air was surprisingly tense and it occurred to John that they were waiting for his reaction. Would he be upset‒would he declare that this whole thing was bullocks and he was moving out? No. John smiled softly. "Ow."

Sherlock smirked in a self-satisfied way and drank his water and Mrs. Hudson smiled down at him and just like that, the tense mood in the air dissipated and John knew that he was 'in.'

"Apologize to Sherlock, love." She said. "Then you get some water too."

John got up and slowly replaced his jeans, feeling oddly giddy, like he'd just passed a test. He blinked a few more times and shuffled over to his flatmate. "Sorry, Sherlock. I was an idiot."

"As was I." He agreed. John tiptoed into the kitchen and poured himself some water, drinking it down in a few gulps before coming back into the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson was standing there, holding the brush and Sherlock was sneering at it.

"Now both of you, back up to your flat. I want you to clean off as much of that…that" She gestured with the brush, pointing at each of them with it, "that _bile_ as you can. When the flat is clean and both of you are washed, come back down here, understand?"

John hesitated. Back down? For what?

"Why?" Sherlock asked, suspicious. Mrs. Hudson gave him his brush back. Sherlock glared at it.

"Tea and bread pudding of course." She answered. "And if one of you wants to use my shower, go right ahead. I know you only have the one up there and I don't imagine you particularly want to be in those clothes any longer."

This was more than agreeable. John and Sherlock trudged back up the stairs. The brush soon found a new home in the fireplace amidst the charred, ashy remains of the wooden spoon.

They scrubbed the floor and the furniture. The bits of liver and heart were thrown back in the metal bowl and happily, with the use of Sherlock's high-powered crime scene strength cleaning powder, the stains came out of the table and sofa. The wallpaper, well, most of the red-brown came out. You wouldn't see a thing unless you were looking.

"You took that well." Sherlock muttered, wiping the floor.

"Oh, uh, thanks."

_Scrub, scrub._

"Why did you agree to be spanked?"

"You can't deduce it?" John teased.

Sherlock bristled, looking affronted. "Of course I _can_." He glanced quickly over the doctor and John grinned. "You don't strike me as a masochist," Sherlock began.

"Nope."

"If you're looking to simply build your relationship with Mrs. Hudson, allowing yourself to get spanked by her seems like an odd way to go about it. Most people would just bring gifts or make time for social calls. We already know her though, and given her proximity to our flat, accomplishing these tasks wouldn't be difficult. You've never expressed an interest in being spanked by her before, though you've been aware for some time now that her and I have an arrangement. You might have felt especially bad about our foolish behavior and genuinely wanted to make amends with her. She clearly saw that spanking was the appropriate punishment, and you agreed. You've never been involved with my punishments before‒why would you be? They were never caused by something you directly initiated, until now."

John couldn't help the small grin that crossed his face as Sherlock worked through it all. Hearing the way his brain worked never got less amazing.

"Possibly…" Sherlock paused, thinking, and John could tell he was trying to look at the situation from a more emotionally-based standpoint now. "Possibly you may have wanted to appease her for her sake. Or you wanted to feel atonement for your own sake and you endured the spanking as a way of assuaging your own guilt. Or…" Sherlock went quiet and John tossed a bit of stomach in the bowl.

"Or…?" John prompted. Sherlock glanced up at him and looked away, almost shy now. "What?" John said. "C'mon, keep going. I'm not disagreeing with anything you're saying, mind."

"Or…" Sherlock licked his lips, encouraged. "Maybe you decided to endure her method of discipline out of some sense of camaraderie or, or friendship? With me?"

John knew how vulnerable Sherlock was making himself by admitting this, and John was pleased he had taken that step.

"Very good. Keep going." John said.

Sherlock relaxed. "So, to review: not a masochist, you do feel regret about our behavior and wanted to make amends somehow, you wanted to endure the spanking out of a sense of camaraderie. We were both responsible and you felt it fair to take the same punishment I was. Correct?"

Sherlock hadn't touched on John's idea that he would be included in their tiny family now if he agreed to the spanking. John was fine with that as he was well aware that Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock might not see it that way at all. Everything else Sherlock had listed, though, was‒

"Spot on." John told him. "A genius in all fields, it seems."

Sherlock ducked his head down to hide his smile, then let out an exasperated sound. He reached under the coffee table and retrieved his hiding mobile, rolling his eyes as he threw it on the sofa. John refrained from saying anything particularly snarky.

"Why did you never tell me she was your nanny?" John asked instead, tossing his scrubbing brush in the bucket of soapy water. The floor sparkled. The cleaning goop really worked.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was never relevant information. She was our nanny, then we lost touch, then she contacted me about her horrid husband, and the rest you know now. My own mother wasn't…well, I wouldn't be what I am today without Mrs. Hudson." He added quietly. John didn't answer, and they finished cleaning.

Sherlock eagerly went downstairs to bathe, and John took a moment to admire his arse in front of the mirror above the sink in the loo. It was a bright blushing shade of pink. She hadn't bruised him, but he knew he'd be sore for a few hours at least. He couldn't help smirking as he got in the shower. Just the idea that he'd been spanked because he and Sherlock had spilled cow organs all over the flat was just funny to him in a silly, absurd kind of way that he couldn't really articulate. He was glad it made him smile though. He bundled up his gross clothes .They were hardly a lost cause, as Sherlock's dry cleaner was amazing. John made a mental note to tip that woman.

He went back to Mrs. Hudson's flat, bum gently throbbing, and went right through her open door. The television was on and a game show was starting. Sherlock was on the sofa with a cup of tea, wearing pajama bottoms and a Tshirt and looking about fifteen years younger with his wet hair and bare feet.

John moved for the armchair when Mrs. Hudson called, "sit on the sofa, John. I'll bring you some tea."

He sat (carefully), crammed on the little sofa, close enough to his flatmate to feel body heat. No doubt she did that on purpose, to sort of reinforce the fact that they needed to get along with each other because they were friends and partners in crime, come hell or high cow parts. Mrs. Hudson bustled in, handing him a cup and cooing over him as she brushed some damp hair off his forehead and returned to the kitchen.

She brought them plates of bread pudding, offering them along with an indulgent smile. "Do you need anything else?" She asked. Seeing them all like this, one never would have thought that an hour ago she had them both over her knee, getting a hell of a smacking.

"No, thanks." They both murmured. Satisfied, she sat in the armchair.

John watched the show, sipping the tea and nibbling on the excellently made dessert, deciding that his first spanking really hadn't been too bad at all.

The End.

* * *

**And there's part 5! As always, comments/critiques welcome. I know the nanny thing kind of came out of nowhere, but I hope it didn't seem too shoehorned in. Thanks for reading, everyone :)**


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